Hard Hitter

by Sarina Bowen

  Surprise made her hands go still for a moment. Her poor, battered heart warmed at his words, even if she didn’t know what to do with that sentiment right now. After a moment she remembered to breathe, and to finish up Patrick’s massage. She ended at his neck and shoulders, kneading the muscle there while he made a happy groan.

  When she had to announce that their time was up, he peeled himself reluctantly off the table, towels around his waist. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he said quietly.

  “You’re welcome, as always. See you for yoga later,” she reminded him.

  He gave her a wink and was gone.

  What am I going to do with you? she’d asked him last night. Today she was no closer to an answer. She shut off the Clapton playlist and removed the linens from her table, wiping it down and fitting a fresh sheet over it for the next client on her list. It wasn’t until she picked up her printed schedule that she found the shiny little book hiding underneath it.

  Ari grinned the moment she saw the cover. Yoga Cats was the title. And the photograph was a tabby cat in warrior pose. She flipped it open. Each page was a different kitty in a different pose. Hysterical. And how funny that Patrick had left her a gift. The whimsical, lighthearted gesture surprised her.

  Still smiling, she tucked the cat book into her knapsack just as her next client walked in for his appointment.

  * * *

  That night, the team won the Carolina game. And two nights later they picked up another point by taking Philly into overtime. Even though their home-bound flight was late, the team was jubilant. Ari fell asleep in her seat to the sound of happy smack talk and play-off predictions.

  At the airport at midnight, she made sure to jump into a cab before Patrick had a chance to offer to drop her at home. Not that his company wasn’t appealing. But she needed to show a little self-restraint.

  Before her taxi made it off the highway, though, she found a text from him on her phone. Can you let me know when you make it home safely?

  I’ll be fine, she replied. And I have this fancy new panic button just in case.

  Humor me?

  She did that far too often.

  When the cab dropped her off in front of her building, she paid the driver with her corporate credit card and then marched boldly inside. “Hi, honey, I’m home!” she called into the stillness.

  Luckily, nobody answered.

  She took her panic button with her upstairs, but it seemed silly. She was all the way in bed before she remembered Patrick’s texts. She grabbed her phone off the nightstand and sleepily replied. Home and safe in bed.

  Can I come over and verify?

  Nope.

  Bummer. Sleep well, sweetheart.

  As she read the words, she could hear his gravelly voice pronouncing them in her ear. The man had bad timing, but he was more appealing than she’d like to admit.

  She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

  SEVENTEEN

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 23RD

  Standings: 3rd Place

  11 Regular Season Games Remaining

  O’Doul spent much of his downtime that week working on his list of romantic ploys to get Ariana to agree to date him.

  She’d once told him that meditation would prevent him from worrying about fights—that it would give his monkey something to do. Fortunately, his mental monkey also enjoyed pestering Becca for inside information.

  “Which cookie place?” he prodded on his third phone call to her.

  “One Girl Cookies. That place on Main.”

  “What’s the best thing they have?”

  “Look, Doulie—I have a meeting. All the cookies are great, and the whoopie pies are awesome.”

  “Huh. Don’t know what that is, but I like the name.”

  “I’ll bet. The corner of Main and Water, buddy. Her birth month is August and she’s a size small. But I’ve got to go, okay?”

  She hung up on him, but he had the ammo he needed. Thanks to Google, he learned that the peridot—whatever the fuck that was—was the birthstone for people born in August. So his mental monkey got busy searching the web for peridot jewelry.

  Not that he was an expert, but a lot of jewelry on the Internet was really freaking ugly. He’d have to dig deep. But he liked a challenge.

  At any rate, he didn’t expend the usual amount of energy worrying about his upcoming fight against Columbus. And who knows—maybe three hours of YouTube review wouldn’t have changed the outcome.

  But the outcome was pretty painful.

  Late in the second period, Leo Trevi tripped over an opponent. The guy’s glove fell off and his hand was sliced by Leo’s skate. It was a fluke, O’Doul had never seen anything like it. There was blood all over the ice. No penalty was called against Trevi, but the other player left the game.

  Their guy challenged O’Doul to a fight immediately. And he accepted just as quickly. That’s how these things were done.

  O’Doul won the fight. Sort of. But their guy was a leftie. He got a champion grip on O’Doul’s sweater, and the blows rained down faster than he could weather. The tunnel of silence that always descended on him during a fight had a different quality tonight. It sounded like a high-pitched screech. He didn’t think he could hang on anymore under the assault. So he wound up one more good punch and let it fly.

  * * *

  When he watched the tape later, he’d see himself get up off the ice a few seconds after they both went down, and stagger off. But that’s not how it had felt at the time. O’Doul didn’t really come to until he was sitting on a table in the medical bay, while the team doctor stitched his face back together.

  “Ow, fuck.” Those were his first truly conscious words.

  “I’m almost done,” the doctor said.

  Somebody’s hands—Jimbo’s as it would turn out—tightened on his jaw, helping him hold still.

  “What’s the shcore?” he slurred.

  “Dunno,” the doctor said. “Doesn’t really matter at the moment.”

  He disagreed. He almost never left the rink after a fight, but here he was for the second time this month, sitting on his ass while the game went on. We’d better not be losing was all he could think.

  They did, though, damn it. Columbus sank one right before the buzzer, so they couldn’t make it into overtime for the extra point, either. His face throbbed and his hip throbbed and his team had needed this win.

  And since Boston—still their closest points rival—won a game tonight, Brooklyn was back in fourth.

  O’Doul took a tediously awkward shower while trying to keep the spray off his face, dressed his aching body slowly, and fought off all the lingering attention of the training team. “I’ll ice it at home,” he said a dozen times. It was late and he was too beat to listen to any more advice.

  He was tying his shoes in the coat room when someone put a hand on the back of his head. His old reflexes kicked in, and he jerked upright, knocking the hand away.

  “Jesus,” Ari said, jumping a half step back.

  When he looked into her startled eyes his stomach fell. “Sorry. Didn’t know it was you.” Hell. He never wanted to scare her.

  She laughed, but it sounded nervous. “Wow. Only one of us is allowed to be jumpy at a time, okay?”

  “You’re jumpy?” He stood up. “Is something wrong?”

  She crossed her arms protectively across herself. “I’m fine. I thought I saw a certain van in the neighborhood tonight on my way here. I’m probably just paranoid, but I was going to ask you to walk me home.”

  “Of course I will.” He threw his suit jacket on. “Did the asshole get served with his restraining order yet?”

  “Nope. They still can’t find him. I’m trying not to feel so paranoid, but the whole situation just creeps me out.”

  “You’re not paranoid,” he said. “That guy is scum.” His
head gave a fresh stab of pain, thanks to Mr. Vince deScumbag. That guy was like a cockroach. He had both O’Doul and Ari in his sights, and he wasn’t going away unless O’Doul stomped him like a bug. If he ever got the chance, he would take it. Gleefully.

  Funny how he could look forward to the one fight that could get him in serious trouble, while he dreaded all the ones he was paid two million a year to take.

  “Let’s go,” he said, with a hand on Ari’s shoulder.

  There was nobody else around by now. They’d all moved on to the bar. His phone was full of teammates’ texts asking if he was all right, and whether he was coming to the bar. He’d just have to catch up with them in the morning.

  When he and Ari got out of the stadium, it was raining. And here in downtown Brooklyn they were a mile from home, as opposed to the couple of blocks they walked home from the practice rink in Dumbo. But the taxi gods smiled. A lit roof light swung into view and Patrick darted for the curb and threw his arm in the air. And, fuck. His neck spasmed. One of the joys of getting a drubbing was slowly discovering all the secondary pains as the night wore on.

  The taxi came to a halt in front of him. Gritting his teeth, he opened the door, waving Ari across the wet pavement and into the back seat.

  After she slid inside, he carefully folded his body into the car and shut the door. Everything throbbed. It was time for more ibuprofen or a nice glass of Scotch. Maybe both. “Can you take us to the corner of Front and Hudson Ave, pal? Thanks.”

  “What’s wrong with your neck?” Ari asked.

  “Nothing.” Though the palm he had clamped on it made him a liar. He dropped his hand and sighed. “Did you see that mutual ass kicking we gave each other?”

  “I didn’t watch the whole thing.”

  “No?”

  She looked away, out the rainy window. “Don’t like to see anyone hit you.”

  “Aw, Ariana! Careful, sweetheart. I might start thinking you like me.” He gave her knee a squeeze.

  “I do like you. Never said I didn’t.” She put her hand on top of his.

  “But you don’t want to date me. Guess I didn’t get any prettier tonight.”

  She turned to look at him, and her expression gentled. “It’s not you. I’m not dating. Period.”

  He flipped his hand over to catch her softer one. He rubbed his thumb across her small palm and smiled. “Are you going to come upstairs with me and look after my neck?”

  “Do you need me to?”

  “No.” He picked up her hand and kissed the palm. “But I want you to.”

  “Aren’t you exhausted?”

  “Yeah.” He kissed her wrist. “Never too tired for your company, though.”

  She turned her head quickly, hiding her face from him. “Okay.”

  “Pal.” He leaned forward to speak into the hole in the driver’s plexi partition. “Can you stop at Bridge Street instead?”

  “Sure thing.”

  The rest of the short trip passed in silence. O’Doul paid the fare and held the door open for Ariana. “If you change your mind I’ll walk you home.” Hell. She’d asked him for an escort, and he’d dragged her back to his lair.

  “I’m good. Don’t worry.”

  The doorman welcomed them home, and Ari glanced around the lobby. “Who else lives in your building, anyway?”

  “Hugh Major, Coach Worthington . . .”

  “What?”

  “I’m kidding, yogi. You clearly don’t want to be seen with a guy who has eight new stitches.”

  “Eight?” she gasped.

  He waved a hand, dismissing her concern. “Leo and Georgia. Massey. Castro. I think that’s it right now. This building is convenient as hell. But nobody has as short a commute as you.”

  “My commute is a New Yorker’s dream,” Ari agreed. “When I heard about this job opening up I thought I’d never get it. Everything about it was too perfect. When Henry called to tell me I could have it if I wanted it, it was really hard not to start squealing like a preteen at her slumber party.”

  O’Doul laughed, and it made his ribs hurt. He escorted her out of the elevator and down the hallway to his door. The sound of his key unlatching the door was the best thing he’d heard all day. “I’ll get the Scotch,” he said. “You’re in, right?”

  “Sure,” she said. “But let me get it. You sit.”

  He hesitated. “I didn’t invite you up to wait on me.”

  “God, I know. Just sit down already. My own neck hurts just looking at you. Your gait is off.”

  She stalked into his kitchen, and his eyes followed her. “The Scotch is . . .”

  “Over the refrigerator,” she finished.

  Right. He took off his suit coat and hung it up in his bedroom closet.

  “You have tequila, too,” she called.

  “Uh-huh. There are limes in the fridge.”

  “How would you feel about a margarita?” she asked. “I do good work.”

  “I’m in,” he said. “If you’re mixing it, I’m drinking it.” He dropped trou and stepped into a pair of sweatpants. He took off his damn tie and finally began to feel like a human.

  She was pouring their drinks from his cocktail shaker over ice when he joined her in the kitchen. How odd to see a woman standing there, humming to herself in his space. He liked it. A lot. He put a hand to the back of her neck. “Thank you, sweetheart. Are you hungry at all? I could order something from the twenty-four hour diner.” He usually ate at the bar after a home game.

  “I’m good, but you go ahead.”

  He decided to skip it. “Let’s sit.” He picked up both cocktails.

  “Hang on.” Ari stopped him so that she could add a wedge of lime to the rim of each glass. “There.” She was so freaking cute.

  He hid his smile by turning away, carrying their drinks toward the sofa.

  She sat beside him. “Here’s to the end of a shitty night.”

  “We drink to that a lot, you and me.” He touched his glass to hers.

  “Truth.” She took a sip, and then another one. “Let me work on your neck.” She handed him her glass and got up, skirting the sofa to stand behind him. “Put your elbows up on the back of the sofa.”

  He did it, a glass in each hand. “This’s just so you can reach your drink, right?”

  “Exactly.” She removed the glass from his hand, took a sip and put it back. “Okay, incoming.”

  Her hands landed at his shoulders. With sturdy pressure, she loosened him up. Then she began to work closer to his sore neck. He felt himself tighten up automatically.

  “Come on, O’Doul. Not this again.”

  “Sorry.” He sighed. “I’ll be a good boy.”

  The next thing he felt was a single, soft kiss below his ear. “I know you can’t stand having weak spots,” she whispered. “Just work with me.”

  Her breathy voice made his cock stiffen immediately. “Okay,” he said.

  He closed his eyes and focused on Ari’s presence behind him. He listened for the soft huffs of her breath as she worked. And he paid attention to the warmth radiating from her body. He let himself remember that night in her hotel room. Both of them naked . . .

  Everything above his waist began to relax, while everything below his waist began to firm up. He’d invented a new relaxation technique—Horny Meditation. He leaned into her touch, and bit by bit his muscles were smoothed into submission by the heat and friction of her touch.

  “We’ll leave it there for now,” she said, patting his neck.

  She sat down in the distant corner of the sofa. He had to stretch to hand over her drink. Ah, well. He pointed the remote at the TV and put on a late-night talk show. He drained his margarita and then lifted her feet into his lap. “Your turn.”

  “Mmm,” she said as he squeezed the ball of her foot. “That is nice. But I
didn’t strain anything tonight. Watching hockey isn’t very tiring. And the owner’s box has these warm Brazilian cheese puffs. I think I ate a dozen of them . . . Mmm.”

  “What’s it like in the box with Nate Kattenberger?” he asked. He’d always been curious about that, and Nate in general.

  Ari offered him her other foot with a smile. “It’s great. Some nights he gets all quiet and broody, but we can never tell if it’s the game or if he’s busy reinventing the Internet in that big brain of his. Tonight he was in a fun mood, joking with Becca and Georgia and taking bets. We only wager pretzels, though. Georgia won the pot by guessing that Leo Trevi would be the first to score. Then she screamed her lungs out when he did. Nate says he’s deaf in one ear now.”

  “Sounds like fun. I guess I thought he’d be all crazy intense up there. He’s got more money invested in the team than the GDP of a developing nation.”

  “He is intense,” Ari said, leaning her head back against the sofa arm. “About everything. But so are sports fans everywhere. Walk past any sports bar and there are guys screaming at the TV. Do you feel like Nate is more entitled to his intensity?”

  “Sure he is. He signs my checks.” He rubbed the arch of her foot. “We’re all just hangin’ by a thread, babe. It’s not just you who worries about job security. It’s every guy on that team. Every day.”

  She flashed him a sympathetic smile, and he felt it in his belly.

  “What else does Nate do on game night?” he asked. “Is he superstitious? Does he carry a rabbit’s foot or rosary beads?” Hockey was sick with superstition. Every player had something—Massey took one specific route to the stadium on game night. Castro ate a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich before every game. (It had to be strawberry. Nobody knew why.)

  “Let’s see. He turns off his phone during the games. Does that count? He seems like the kind of guy who never unplugs. Oh—and he never has a drink until the third period, and only if we’re losing.”

  O’Doul snorted. “Bottoms up tonight, then.”

  “The man can drink, too. And after four Scotches he’s still sharp as a tack.” Ari grinned.